Every atom of your flesh
by Colorblind City
Summary: "In hindsight, though, she should have known there was more than a sexual predilection to it. He is, at the core, a scientist. It's no wonder he knows her breasts better than she does. And it's really no surprise he noticed before she did." During the hiatus, Sherlock and Irene battle a different kind of villain. Post-Reichenbach. Established relationship.


So i was watching this sex talk show, and the hostess was saying something about how men should help their girlfriends/wives with breast exploring to prevent cancer... and my brain immediately thought, that's totally something Sherlock would do. And yeah, this fic was born.

Also, i know a topic like this requires me to do some investigation, but cancer is a touchy subject for me and i just... didn't feel like investigating? sorry, i suck, but i just couldn't. I'm drawing from what i already now from life experience and what the media has taught me, so feel free to correct me if i'm making any huge mistakes. i guess i just wanted to focus on the emotional part of it? yeah, so bear with me on this.

This is set during the hiatus, and under the assumption that Irene worked with Sherlock to bring The Network down.

* * *

.

_"Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am capable._  
_Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear."_

-Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë

.

Of all things, Irene never imagined Sherlock to be a breast man. His reaction the first time he saw hers was uninterested (bored) but, boy, does he know what to do when they're at his disposal. And for a woman who has slept with other women (and knows perfectly what to do and what she wants done to herself) to be impressed by his abilities, well, that's a pretty tall achievement.

In hindsight, though, she should have known there was more than a sexual predilection to it. He is, at the core, a scientist. It's no wonder he knows her breasts better than she does, after all he can see them from every imaginable angle, not to mention keep objective measurements to their size, weight, consistency, color and shape.

And it's really no surprise he noticed before she did.

He squeezes her left breast with exactly the same force as ever, and she winces. He stops that course of action and just fondles it. She almost forgets, but then his fingers find a particularly tender spot, and this time she lets out a little whimper.

"My period's just around the corner, darling," she explains, brings him up to kiss his mouth, taste her own skin.

He nods against her mouth, mumbling about there being other ways to make her feel good as his hands slide down her body, and his voice is deeper than the farthest recesses of hell, and his fingers are— oh…

The brightness of her orgasm wipes her mind out.

.

* * *

.

When she comes to, she expects a smug smile and roving hands trying to coax her into the next round.

Her satiated smile starts to fade when his eyes are not bright, not on hers, but roaming sadly over her breasts.

"What's the matter?" She rests her hand on his cheek, drags him up until he faces her. His eyes, somehow, get sadder. She wants to laugh it off, say "are you really so disappointed by that?" but there's not a trace of playfulness in his face.

"I meant to tell you before," he starts, hesitant (and that's not a word she ever thought she'd use on him) and lowers his gaze to her lips. He doesn't resist placing a soft kiss there, slow and warm, but heavy, insistent.

"Don't stall, what did you mean to tell me?" after she gathers the strength to pull away.

He breathes on her lips and closes his eyes, rests his forehead on hers.

"Just say it."

"I think you may have a tumor on your left breast."

The silence oppresses her lungs and she gasps for air. The imaginary (is it imaginary?) tumor pushes the air right out before her body can even register it breathed.

"What are the facts?" her voice is steady, even with the air deficit. Her heart isn't pounding, it must be his, and she's feeling it where they are pressed together, he's the one shaking, isn't he?

"I started to notice the slight swelling on its side about two months ago, ruled it off as hormonal but decided to keep it in constant observation. You've gone through two menstrual cycles and it has not returned to its previous size. Just now you expressed pain when I touched it…"

"You don't think I have a tumor, do you?" She interrupts, she's never liked beating around the bush. "You know I do." And the narrowing of his eyes screams _don't make me say it._

She nods and turns her head away, shimmies out from under him and lays on her side (her left side and yes her breast aches a little has been aching but she never thought—)

She's sobbing before she knows it, and his arms are tight around her, his body warm and real and alive where it's pressed behind her. She doesn't even try not to cry.

He mumbles a thousand things at the back of her neck, but his words are lost on her, only the soft rumble of his voice (and she loves that voice she never wants him to stop talking) and his warm breath on her skin.

Warm, warm, warm. She feels so cold, but he is warm, and he's all over her, breathing and speaking and kissing and alive.

_She's died quite a number of times, but at least this time she lived first._

She breathes and breathes until she sleeps.

.

* * *

.

They sit at the breakfast table over coffee and toast, like good old-fashioned Americans.

He calmly tells her all the medical procedures available, and gives her all kinds of statistics and numbers and somehow, somehow, all of that is actually reassuring. But maybe it's just his voice.

She sips at her coffee, wills it to become tea, lowers the cup when it doesn't. She asks the dark liquid how long he spent researching all the things he's telling her now, wonders if he slipped up and lost hope, cried, just a little, while reading about the ones who didn't make it.

He tells her he has scheduled her an appointment for a mammography this afternoon, and she tries to summon the strength to be angry at him, for hiding this from her, for acting behind her back, for taking control over the thing that will decide how much longer she lives.

But she can't be. She is so stupidly grateful that he knows what to do, that he is taking care (because he's _taking care_, not control, and oh who knew it could feel so wonderful to give herself up like this) of her, of this, because she has no idea what to do.

She reaches for his hand across the table, squeezes it, stops him in the middle of whatever he was saying. He seems to understand, for he squeezes back and moves on to brief her on the latest hint they've gotten to The Network's activities.

.

* * *

.

He has to wait outside. It takes a not inconsiderable amount of self-control not to cling to him and beg the radiographer to let him stand beside her and hold her hand can't he just lie beside her the machine won't break if it scans two people at the same time

Sherlock kisses her forehead, squeezes her arm, says _I love you_, then storms off to the waiting room.

It's the first time he says the words, and his timing is, as always, utter shit.

Or maybe not, because she lies down and doesn't even think about the procedure, because _he loves her._

Bastard.

.

* * *

.

He doesn't say it again. It would be an insult to both of them, but she's grateful to find he's not too emotionally constipated to have said it in the first place. She's also grateful she hasn't gotten the chance to say it back, when she doesn't have enough of herself to give, when he seems keen on giving her everything.

They'll get the results in two weeks, and maybe then they can speak about it.

Irene finds herself restless, pacing around like a caged beast and gripping things tighter than necessary. Even if the results come back positive, it doesn't mean it's the end, she tells herself this over and over.

And yet, she paces. It's a little too poetic, that one of her biggest assets becomes a time bomb, that she's outrun so many dangers, escaped death so many times, that the only thing that can end her for real was inside her the whole time.

"We are cats," she states seriously, out of nowhere, and he actually looks up from his microscope.

"Pardon?"

"Cats have nine lives. You've only used up one of yours. I have—"

"Cats are naturally alert and swift to escape injury, that does not mean they have more than one life."

"And isn't that what we both do? Escape injury? But there's a limit to that kind of luck."

"You will not die!"

The silence rings through the apartment, stifling the echo of his voice.

"I've killed you enough times, I've gone to great lengths to bring you back. I'm not letting you die for real. Stop being fatalistic, it doesn't suit you."

And that's his last word on the topic.

_(he will outlive God trying to have the last word, had said John Watson)_

"You're right," she whispers into his shoulder that night. "I'll try not to be a pain in the arse anymore." He turns, holds her back, mumbles something obligatory like _it's okay._ "I think…" and he starts rubbing circles on her back, shushing her, _don't think_. So hypocritical of him. "I love you…" she sighs at his temple. "I won't leave you."

Mr. Punchline just squeezes her, holds her tight to his chest.

.

* * *

.

They're driving through San Francisco to her doctor's appointment, where the results of the mammography are awaiting her and the silence only makes the car feel stuffier and dammit why is it so hot in California? Her skin is already tanned, even with how little they leave their apartment by day, and she can feel sweat dripping down her back even though she _just showered._

Sherlock is strangely talkative, mentioning all kinds of random thoughts running through his mind. The Network has been silent for a while now, the hint having turned out to be a rumor, and she can tell boredom is starting to take a toll on his sanity.

It's the boredom that makes him nervous, surely, not— no, it's not _that._

Irene taps her nails against the glass of the window that for _some ungodly reason_ was not designed to roll all the way down. She's not imagining him lying on their bed (god, they have a bed, when did this thing get so serious?) crying and smelling her pillow and _missing her._ She isn't. She's not thinking about any of that.

(she's always been at her best when lying to herself)

"And anyway," he says, out of nowhere, as if he's picking up a conversation they were having before the red light turned green. "We're already dead, what's death gonna do, huh? What's he gonna do? Kill you?" he says in that awful American Gangster accent and she can't help guffawing with laughter. He smiles that dorky, boyish smile that simultaneously makes her embarrassed to have fallen for him and turns her insides all fluttery and mushy. She hates him a bit for that, but doesn't really.

His chest still shakes with repressed laughter when she turns the radio on, but as 70's music fills the air he suddenly stiffens, smile frozen in place but twisted, his breathing sped up times infinity and is he having a panic attack?

_whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother you're stayin' ali—_

And suddenly she remembers.

She remembers a night lying awake in the dark, his face hidden in the hollow of her throat, hands clutching her arms tight enough to bruise. She remembers secrets flowing out of his mouth in whispers, words fast and thoughtless, rushing out as water through a whole in a dam, and she tried to be the little Dutch boy who holds it all together, but the whole was too big, the cracks ran too deep, and the hard concrete gave way under the pressure.

She remembers him gasping, voice laced with fear —fear of drowning in the words that can't come out of his mouth fast enough, fear of drowning in his own tears, fear of drowning in his own bitterness— as he told her about machines and angels and fairy tales and _the problem with staying alive. _

And if she couldn't hold him together she at least kept him afloat.

She remembers pulling away to look at his face, remembers the thick rivers running down the boulders of his cheeks, remembers thinking that the water will erode the sharp bones until he is round-faced like a child, remembers being sad at the thought.

And she remembers waking up and seeing him by the window, his profile outlined by the morning light, cheekbones intact, _sharper_ if anything, skin flushed and itchy. She remembers him studying her with hardened, distrustful eyes.

"Forget this night," his mouth ordered; _I couldn't bear to see you pity me,_ his eyes pleaded.

She remembers nodding. She remembers him dashing for the bathroom and avoiding her the rest of the day.

_ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive—_

Irene gasps and scrambles to turn the radio off. She stares at him until she sees his jaw relax and his shoulders slouch, then she breathes in relief and proceeds to forget about this incident before he bothers to ask.

Then, she focuses on telling herself that this isn't a bad omen.

.

* * *

.

It is. Neither of them is surprised.

Irene's head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, her ears ringing with white noise. She doesn't hear a word the doctor says, but it's no worry, Sherlock is filing it all away in his mind palace (and Irene really hopes her room in his mind isn't now bursting with boxes labeled "cancer") and she's grateful and angry and relieved and _scared fucking shitless._

"But the decision is entirely up to you, Mrs. Altamont. What course of action would you like to take?"

And Irene has no fucking idea because she didn't hear a word, but Sherlock squeezes her hand, draws her attention to him.

"Operation is probably the best option, but what do you think, darling?" and the tone of his voice is perfectly gentle and from his face she could almost believe he is hanging onto whatever she's going to say like a devoted, loving husband...

Except his eyes are firm, stern, pale gray in the fluorescent light telling her, _you will do this, I demand it._

Any other day, she'd have said no, just to spite him, just to get a fight (and mind-shattering make-up sex) out of him, but now she _knows_, she knows he _loves_ her and he's scared too and_ I'm not letting you die for real,_ and she knows she would be giving him this order, too, were the situation reversed.

She looks away, over the doctor's shoulder, pretending to consider, because he's giving her the chance to make it look like it's her decision, like she's not agreeing to the unthinkable (_and just _what_ is a dominatrix without her breasts?_) just because he wants her alive for himself.

She doesn't bother looking at him again, his eyes will not have changed. She merely nods in what she hopes looked like determination instead of reluctance to the doctor. She has no hopes of fooling Sherlock, but he squeezes her hand anyway, as if rewarding her obedience with positive stimulation.

The worst part of it all is, when he kisses her softly right outside the doctor's office, no one around, not putting on a show, she thinks _dammit, it's working._

_._

* * *

.

She does eventually tell him, _I'd be doing it anyway, so stop thinking you can order me around,_ and he says, _I don't know what you're talking about,_ and she'd believe him if he hadn't been smiling while he said it.

.

* * *

.

She starts reading about it, because she's been putting it off for long enough and she doesn't want to rely _entirely_ on him.

Surprisingly, knowing what's coming actually helps her stop freaking out. She's always found strength in knowledge, for knowledge is control, and if she's going to go through this, then it's damn well going to be on her own terms.

One of which is going to be next to impossible to carry out, but then, how can she hope to remain in control of her own mind with _him_ around? With his hands and his voice and his _eyes_ and his _I'm not letting you die for real I love you_

It's probably also really, unbelievably stupid of her, to try to tough it out without him when she needs him so much it _hurts_, but it's the only option where she can get through this with some semblance of sanity and independence (and yes, admittedly there's pride there too) left in her.

But she isn't going to tell him all this. He'd find a way to talk her out of it, and honestly, she's all too willing to be swayed, she's shaking a little, even as she sits down beside him and tries to appear resolute.

He shuts the laptop a little too abruptly to be inconspicuous, and turns to look at her with exaggerated attention.

"What is it that you're not telling me?"

This is an entirely different argument than she wants to have, but it might be a good excuse for dropping the real bomb.

"Nothing"

"Oh, please. I'm ill, not stupid. What is it? Is it The Network?"

Silence.

"You have a lead, don't you?"

_Why did it come out so sad, dammit, this is exactly what she needs._

"I'm not leaving you."

"You have to go, this is the first chance you've had in months."

"There will be others."

"And you still won't be leaving me!" _is she really screaming already?_ "This thing is going to drag on and on for months, Sherlock. Years, even! I'm not letting you give up on your life's work just because you want to _take care_ of me," she spits out the words, like they're disgusting instead of what she wants most.

He looks like she slapped him across the face. She _has_ slapped him, and he's never looked like this before, and she almost, _almost_ takes it all back, but he bites his lips together, nods once, and goes back to his laptop like she isn't even there anymore.

She feels like screaming some more, but her goal's been achieved so there's no use. She pushes herself up on her knees and drops a kiss into his hair.

"I love you."

Her voice echoes, as if the apartment were empty, and she already feels alone.

.

* * *

.

She's not surprised to wake up to a cold bed, the next day.

The closet looks barren without his clothes, but the kitchen feels familiar enough. Of course he wouldn't bother to clean up his last experiment. Irene almost feels like smiling.

.

* * *

.

The operation goes as well as can be expected, but trying not to go crazy in a hospital bed, all by herself, for_ days_… Well, the less that can be said about that, the better.

Then she's being discharged and the nurse asks if there's anyone who can pick her up, and Irene's heart almost doesn't hurt when she says (it's not technically a lie) that her husband is away in a business trip. Though that may just be the pain killers in general.

She drives herself home, but she's not as proud of it as she thought she'd be.

.

* * *

_._

_It's fucking lonely in here._ She tells herself this is the way she wanted it, and carries on, one day at a time.

.

* * *

.

The Treatment is, of course, absolute hell, and as she stares at her scars, at her bony shoulders, at her dry skin, at the balding spots in her head, she is vaguely grateful that he's not there to stare as well.

When he left she had known deep in her bones that she would never see him again —she was not being pessimistic about her health, she was being realistic about the extent of The Network.

So she is genuinely, devastatingly surprised when she opens the door and he's standing there, after being gone for less than two months, with two large duffel bags at his feet indicating that this is not a quick visit.

She expects cold eyes, examining openly and without the least bit of respect, assessing all the changes in her appearance and deducing which med caused which side effect.

Instead, his eyes remain on hers, his gaze weary but so very fond (_the fucking son of a bitch_), as he steps into the apartment and puts his arms around her. She breathes in deep, trying not to let her hormonal imbalance get the best of her emotions. His grip is loose (_gentle, the moron is being gentle_) but she can feel the repressed strength in his tense muscles, can feel him fighting the impulse to crush her, and she wants to scream (and cry and shriek until she leaves him deaf) that she's the same as she has always been and that she's not fucking going to break if he holds her closer, tighter, like he used to _before._

But she can't, because just this slight press of his chest against hers already has her thinking about running to the bathroom cabinet for her pain killers.

(Although to be fair, the excruciating pain inside her chest feels too deep, too real yet intangible, rooted to her very heart like a second tumor, in a way that is too familiar to be just her bruised flesh)

She has to admit in that moment that she is not the same, that she will very well break (_has been broken for so fucking long_, but she can only admit so many blows to her pride in a day) if he comes any closer, she is breaking just as she stands there in his arms, so it's purely survival instinct that makes her push him away.

There is no hurt in his eyes, only understanding and a little something that she can't quite place, and she rolls her eyes and turns away his ridiculous compassion. He smiles then, proud and maybe just a little too affectionate, and pats her shoulder as if she has passed a test.

For a moment she wants to scream again, but his good humor wins out and she scoffs to hide her smile.

She goes on about her usual business and he doesn't interfere. For the first time since she has known him, he's trying to be polite and not stare at her, but she catches him once or twice, his piercing eyes memorizing her anew, and for all that she tries to hold it against him, she's just too happy that he's here again, sitting at the kitchen table pretending to be engrossed by the particulates under his microscope.

.

* * *

.

He makes love to her that night. He doesn't fuck her into the mattress in that way that drives her crazy, his fingers don't leave those precious purple marks on her hips, his teeth don't tear blood out of her swollen lips.

The damned idiot lays her down softly, a hand on her back and another in her head, holding her like a babe, like a doll, and she thinks _bastard bastard bastard_ and bites down hard on his lower lip, the taste of metal filling her mouth almost immediately, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't draw back, the only proof that he felt anything at all is that distinct hindrance in his kiss that means he's smiling.

At first she struggles to keep her shirt on. He hasn't seen... _them._ And she never wants him to. Never. But he is nothing if not persistent, and she has learned by now that Sherlock Holmes always gets his way.

She can almost hear the wistful sigh, see his thin lips pressed together and his eyebrows furrowing. She can almost see his eyes turning away, never again to look at her with that breathtaking gleam that only lust can bring. She can see it all in her head as he kisses his way up her stomach, around her protruding ribs as he slowly rucks her shirt further up, and she blinks back tears. She will not cry. She will not cry. She will not cry.

When he reaches his destination, he stops (she holds her breath and cherishes these last moments of closeness before it all goes to hell). His nose slips inside her shirt and traces the path of one of her scars, the short puffs of breath suggest he's sniffing, (of course Sherlock would be interested to know if scarred flesh smells different. Irene is surprised to realize she doesn't mind being one of his experiments.)

He stays there, just below her would-be breast, for what feels like an eternity. She's beginning to nod off —the meds serve their purpose alright but she pays in kind with her stamina— when he raises his head and grabs the hem of her shirt, apparently done with his experiment and ready to get on with the program.

She lifts her arms and allows him to pull it off her, then she grabs at the sheets to disguise the shaking of her hands. She can already feel rejection coursing through her veins and heating up her face (she's blushing for fuck's sake she is Irene Adler she does not _blush_.)

A deep breath, then another, she looks down at him.

He looks so concentrated it should be funny; it kind of is. His eyes move quickly, tracing every line over and over, and she knows that look, it's his detective look, and it would be funny if he didn't look so damn adoring and fucking _smitten_ with the sight of her patched up, flat chest. The tears that never really left come back with a vengeance, her whole face scrunching up in an attempt to keep them where they belong: inside.

He lowers his head again, and places a small kiss to one end of the left crescent moon scar. It tickles, and she squirms. The movement makes his lips (which he has yet to remove he is not coiling in disgust he hasn't run away yet maybe—) brush up and cause more tickling. She can feel him smile against her skin, and her tears run down freely as he sets out to trace kisses all along her scar, slow and gentle, but firm.

He reaches the end and moves on to the one on the right, giving it equal treatment, and the tears keep flowing down the sides of her face, pooling around her ears as she struggles to keep from sobbing. She is so scared, petrified, that if she moves he will stop, stand up and leave again, this benediction feels so fragile, so tentative even though his lips never hesitate in their journey, and she —who once proclaimed herself goddess of daredevils— dares not risk it.

As he reaches the far end of the scar, his lips become urgent, and before she knows it they are back on hers, harsh and demanding, dominating, and this is familiar territory, this she knows how to deal with. She can't help releasing a sigh of relief into his mouth —that he swallows in the most erotic way, and a faraway voice in her head wonders why they have never tried breathplay before, but apparently it will have to wait, for he has other plans.

He enters her slowly, tortuously so, and she begs (twice, thrice) but he doesn't relent his steady pace, not for a second, and she comes with a sob after what feels like a lifetime. After coming himself, his mouth returns to her chest, licking and sucking and almost-but-not-quite biting in what feels like desperation, and Irene would cry again if she hadn't cried all her tears already.

To make up for this, it's him who cries. Just a one-two-three, dropping on her skin like a spell, and she makes a wish as if on shooting stars.

He has stopped holding himself up, his weight now resting fully (deliciously) on top of her, his softened length still buried inside, his head so heavy where it lays, nested in between her pitiful excuses for breasts. She hurts all over, from the inside out, she breathes and the air doesn't quite go all the way inside her lungs, her scars throb, dull but incessant, and she doesn't protest when he falls asleep like that, crushing her the way she was longing to be crushed, anchoring her to life.

.

* * *

.

In the morning she wakes with the sunlight bright on her face, her skin warm and sticky, his snores rumbling through her chest, his curls tickling her neck (he's letting it get long, hasn't dyed the growing roots, is he hoping for—) so she runs her hands through them, untangling them because the man can't be bothered to use a hair comb, and his snores stumble, turn into faint moans and whines and his hold on her waist tightens.

She used to be able to count on one hand the times she had woken up before him. She suspects that's about to change.


End file.
